A Memoir
Just Us Girls
A Memoir of Coercive Control, Motherhood, and Survival
Chapter Thirty-Five
Into the Courthouse
The wipers swished back and forth across my windshield against a heavy spring rain as I circled the courthouse downtown. By my third lap, I still hadn’t found parking. The dashboard clock crept closer to 9:30 a.m.— the summoned time. I leaned over the steering wheel, as if that would improve my visibility through the downpour, and scanned the street. Every metered spot was taken.
Another red light. My hands tightened around the wheel. I rolled down the window and called out to a man sitting under a covered bus stop.
“Parking garage. Three blocks that way,” the man shouted back, pointing north.
I nodded in thanks, looked to the floor below the passenger seat where my umbrella should be, but it was hanging on the coat rack at home. Nevertheless, I turned north. A small lot came into view directly across from the courthouse—PARKING $10. I slammed the brakes, jerked the wheel right, pulled in and managed to find a crumpled-up ten-dollar bill at the bottom of my purse. Handing the cash to the attendant, I swung my coat over my head and dashed through the rain. Splashing water sprayed my freshly ironed pants with each step.
Inside a set of double doors, I landed in a short security line for metal detectors. Two people went before me; then a marshal waved me through.
“Everything in the tray. Any metal on you?”
I stepped forward, shaking my head.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
“Ma’am—your belt. Take it off, put it in the bin, and go again.”
He was annoyed. I didn’t know the process—I had never entered a courthouse during the divorce. I took my belt off and passed through again. A green light flashed. I ran the belt back through my pant loops, and looked down at the summons in my hand—a modification of custody hearing. Marcus had wasted no time filing once his criminal trial had concluded. I held the paper up to the marshal. “Where do I go?”
“Check in on the fifth floor. Then they’ll send you down to Family.”
I had no idea what that meant, but I listened.
From the lobby I took the elevator up to the fifth floor, checked in and was directed down to the second floor—Family Relations.
Another short elevator ride dropped me into another unfamiliar space. My eyes darted down the long hallway to the office. With the summons in one hand and my soaked coat in the other, I hurried in.
A woman stood behind a plexiglass window.
She didn’t look up as she spoke. “Name.”
“Sophie Marino.”
“Is the other party here?”
I glanced over my shoulder, scanning the room and the hallway beyond. “No. He’s not.”
“Take a seat. We’ll call you when he arrives.”
There were benches in the hallway, and a few empty chairs inside the office. I sat inside—it felt safer. The office held a mix of people, some alone like me, others consulting their attorneys. Their whispered conversations made me feel uncomfortably out of place. Rather than consulting an attorney, I had chosen to lean into logic: with the record of the assault, protective order, and the sentencing—I couldn’t fathom a ruling that would give Marcus more time with the girls. I had faith in the system. Out of habit, I took to my phone and began scrolling through emails, distracting myself, quieting the voice inside me screaming that I was unprepared.
Then I heard his voice.
“Marcus Jones.”
My body went rigid. I didn’t look up. I held my gaze on my phone.
“Take a seat. You’ll be called shortly.”
I stopped breathing as he passed, and finally exhaled when his footsteps exited to the hall.
A few minutes later, a wooden door swung open.
“Jones vs. Marino!”
A disheveled woman stood in the doorway holding a folder. Button-down shirt, dress pants, clunky heels. She had tried, but she looked tired.
I stood. Marcus came up behind me.
“Follow me,” she instructed.
The sound of her heels meeting the tile led the way. I watched my feet take each step as the familiar fuzzy static rushed through me with the awareness that he was directly at my back.
We were guided into an office that was just large enough to fit the woman’s desk, which was cluttered with thick files covering the entire surface. She sat behind it, and across from her, Marcus and I sat side-by-side as she opened our file.
“You’re here on Mr. Jones’s motion.” She turned to him. “Mr. Jones, you’re seeking a modification?”
“I want equal time with MY children. I should have just as much time as HER.”
His voice filled the room. I could feel his eyes burning into me. I stared straight ahead.
“And I have my own apartment now too!” he added, as if it meant something.
“Understood, Mr. Jones.” She turned to me. “Ms. Marino. Are you agreeable to that?”
My mouth opened and then hung there. I repeated the words in my head.
Agreeable. To equal time.
I stared at the wall.
“Ms. Marino?”
“No, I’m not.” My eyes met hers. “Absolutely not.”
“Of course you’re not,” he snapped.
“Ms. Marino, can you elaborate?” She folded her hands neatly on top of the file.
“Marcus doesn’t even have visitation with our youngest daughter on paper. We divorced over three years ago. We have a routine—we have a life—”
“How old are your children?” She cut me off and began flipping through the file.
Marcus interjected. “They’re three and six. The current order was written when I was active duty in the military. That’s why she has full custody.”
“And how long have you been home, Mr. Jones?”
“Two years. I just got around to filing.”
“Ma’am,” I insisted, “Marcus was arrested and charged with assault and strangulation which resulted in a protective order. It was just lifted. He hasn’t seen our children for seven months.”
He laughed out loud. “That has nothing to do with this. I’m their father, and I deserve time with them.”
The tension in the room thickened. The woman’s face tightened. “Okay,” she said. “Here’s what I’m going to recommend. Mr. Jones, given that you don’t currently have structured visitation, we will ease into this. A judge isn’t going to grant equal custody immediately. Let’s start with a standard every-other-weekend schedule. We’ll revisit in four months with the intention of an increase.”
“I—,” he started.
She continued. “Every other weekend, Friday afternoon to Sunday evening?”
“I’m a hairdresser. I work Saturdays. I can’t just take my busiest day off,” Marcus argued.
“It’s every other weekend, Mr. Jones.” Her voice was short. “Do you want to make that work?”
“I’ll pick them up Saturday after work and keep them until Sunday.”
“What’s your availability during the week? We can add one consistent day.”
“I’m off Mondays. I want the whole day Monday.” He paused. “Actually, I’ll keep them from Sunday into Monday, and SHE can come pick them up.”
I refused to let them talk around me. “Ma’am, two nights in a row is not fair to our daughters. I think we should start with one overnight. Our older daughter is in school. Marcus is late for everything. It would be better if he picked them up after school.”
Marcus leaned forward in protest, but her voice came first.
“What time does your older daughter leave for school?”
“7:45,” I answered. “And then our babysitter arrives for our younger daughter, and I leave for work at 8:30.”
“Okay.” She nodded. “Mr. Jones, I think you should have the opportunity to be part of their routine. On Mondays, you can pick both girls up from Ms. Marino’s home at 7:45 a.m., take your older daughter to school, keep your younger daughter for the day, and return both children at 7 p.m.”
“Why do I have to do all the driving?” He shouted. “She can pick them up from MY house at 7 p.m.”
“Ma’am—” I started.
“Ms. Marino,” she said firmly, “the reality is he is their father. In the state of Connecticut, both parents have equal rights to their children. Despite your differences, this is what is in the best interest of the children. We will start here and see how it goes.”
Her words cut into me, in the best interest of the children. My stomach turned. Before we even went in front of a judge, another hearing was already scheduled.
My eyes began to sting. I held them open, refusing to blink. I wouldn’t let him see me cry.
“I leave work at 6:30 p.m. Can I pick up at 6:45?” There was no fighting it, so I leaned into logistics.
“Yes. I’ll type this up and you can go back upstairs.” Her fingers were already gliding across her keyboard.
“One more thing,” Marcus added. “I’m paying WAY too much in child support. I need that lowered immediately.”
“Mr. Jones, we don’t address child support in custody motions. That matter is handled at the courthouse down the street. You can file there.”
“Oh, I WILL,” he sneered directly at me.
The schedule was printed—we both signed. Within thirty minutes, we were standing in front of a judge and the schedule was made a court order.
An overworked woman, in an overloaded office, made a decision in ten minutes with no real understanding of who we were. Then moved on to the next case. There was no acknowledgment of the assault, of the protective order, of my children witnessing it all—that didn’t exist in her office. It was my first glimpse behind the curtain.
— Sophie Marino
